


The Tides of Swansea

by newsbypostcard



Series: [hp] An Uncivil War [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Epistolary, Lie Low At Lupin's, Love Confessions, M/M, Memory, Pining, Processing Feelings of Betrayal Fifteen Years Late, Reconciliation, Smoking, impending doom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-26
Updated: 2019-09-26
Packaged: 2020-10-28 15:21:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20780753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newsbypostcard/pseuds/newsbypostcard
Summary: Finally down to the business of reconciliation, Remus found himself rooted a second time. It would be too much to kiss him, the wrong time for admission; he craved simplicity, some obvious rapprochement, something to encourage vulnerability on. Remus wanted to hear his words, his laughter, the tones of his voice. The specifics didn't matter as much as the cause.(1996: On the eve of war, Remus and Sirius reacquaint themselves in a ramshackle cabin off the Swansea coast.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Or, "can I plausibly condense 20 years of intense emotion into 15k (I certainly tried)."
> 
> This story starts after the events of Prisoner of Azkaban, covers Goblet of Fire and ends just before Order of the Phoenix. This is sort of three stories that make one story; each chapter has its own style and objective and could be read alone, but together they close an arc.
> 
> I dropped out of HP fandom in 2009 (evidently it didn't take) and I am very, very out of touch with fanon. Everything is interpreted from the books.
> 
> With apologies to Wales, a place I have never been.

  


Jul 6

Moony,

Hope this finds you. Of course it will. Did we ever find out how owls know where to find their recipients? I remember avidly pursuing the answer in the library, then you mocking me in the library, then following Prongs to the kitchens and forgetting about the library. I guess that means we never did. One of life's glorious little mysteries.

Writing so you know I'm still alive, for better or worse, and to thank you properly for your help in the Shack. I didn't comport myself well with the children, but you were brilliant as always. They don't seem much worse for the wear, but if you hadn't walked in it might have gone different. I'm glad it didn't.

Hope you're well and have somewhere. I'd worry but you'd only flay me for it. 

P.

  


  


7/27/94

P — glad to hear from you. Let me know you're alive whenever you like.

Interested in your framing of the owling pursuit as 'we'. You did not find the answer, because you have the attention span of a gnat and lost interest in the research every time your stomach growled. I found the answer and used the same charm to make the map — something you called 'brilliant' every time you asked me where I got the idea, which was often. Why you never remembered was beyond me, unless it was all an act just to have an excuse to call me brilliant.

I'm glad it didn't go too much differently at the Shack as well, though I can think of a couple improvements. Regardless it was good to set things straight and to have someone to write again.

I'm fine as ever. Dumbledore insisted on paying me the full stipend, despite my early retirement. I tried to decline — obviously he is paying me out of his own coffers — but I think he might have tried to force me to bunk with Hagrid if I didn't accept. Not that I wasn't tempted; man makes a solid case for the advantages of snuggling with a bear, but the thought of being possibly domesticated in wolf form has me out of Scotland for now. Enough money saved to keep a small cabin by the sea — a bit remote, but you would like it. Worse comes to worst I can always go back to the Shack. Of course it is always open to you as well, such as it is.

I assume you're somewhere much warmer than Britain anyway, based on your bird. Good — stay gone from this country and get some blasted colour.

I'd worry but you'd only flay me for it. Hello to your large feathery savior.

M.

  


  


Aug 28

Moony, 

I remember your answer about the locating charm, I'll have you know, but I forgot it had to do with anything and simply believed, as you once told me, that you were all-seeing and knew where everyone was at all times. As you always turned up in the nick of time to stop me from doing anything interesting, at all, it seemed believable. I see now how I might have taken 'sarcasm' or perhaps 'placating me to stop asking you the same question every time we got stoned' too literally — that's actually quite brilliant though Moony, using that charm on the map, have I ever told you that?

Funny you should mention the merits of snuggling with large warm creatures, for Buckbeak and I have become quite close. Joking aside these creatures are quite good companions once you get used to them. It's like having a dragon that's mostly a bird. Do have to slaughter more fowl than expected. Find myself committing a spate of chicken murders. Bit cannibalistic, isn't it? Horses next, perish the thought. I try to fix up a barn or a bit of fence for the farmers I steal from but honestly I'm not that fussed. Sorry about your chicken mate, it's an emergency.

I almost felt bad for you for a moment. A man for snuggling on offer! What's a little domestication between bedfellows? You'll be just fine, Moony, one way or another. Won't you?

Caught wind of what happened at the Quidditch World Cup. Any additional information would be more than welcome. Is it as it seems? Related, don't suppose your all-seeing ways have new information on old friends of ours?

I'll be in touch. Perhaps we can have a drink if I happen nearby. My treat.

Padfoot

  


  


9/14/94

Pads,

Thank you for the belly laugh, I needed it. If I recall, between the two of us, I was much less the one in need of domestication, but I'll let that slide on account of your diminished state.

Those creatures are good hunters, aren't they? What are you slaughtering chickens for? I can just imagine you bounding after one for sport, enjoying your (comparative) freedom. Prongs would think of you on a chicken run and turn inconsolable, you do realize. Bit like Quidditch if you think about it.

I have precious little more information than what's in the press, which is where I imagine you're getting yours. That Skeeter's some writer but hopefully you're able to discern some truth. One extra tidbit for you: Mad-Eye's in my old job. Can you imagine it? At least the children won't be bored. I've written to Dumbledore for more information but not heard back — I imagine he's busy with the new term. For my part I'm laying low until the turbulence dies down to avoid getting mistaken for the other side (not sour, just being forthright). We'll keep in touch about it.

I have one concern in the middle of all this: I want to warn you against going after our old friend, though I know I'll be ignored if you're of a different mind. We know what happened at the QWC, and I don't like your odds of finding him alone. What's more if you're caught again it won't be good for anyone. You're not one to sit back and watch, I know, but let people with less to lose make this pursuit. You know Mad-Eye would get a grind out of it if Wormtail showed up in the castle — Harry is in good hands.

One thing I wish had gone differently was more chance to talk. Prongs Jr. and his merry marauders — they're not very like us, but aren't they like us in ways? Reminiscing is best avoided without a bottle of firewhiskey of course. Looking forward to our inevitable drink.

Autumn threatening here so I'll bid you to stay warm. I'm always fine, Padfoot, and so are you. We're very good at this persevering business. Let's neither one of us forget it. 

-R

  


  


10/10

Moony, 

There's no one with less to lose than me. Everyone from the Order could do to remember that.

I'd send you to Grimmauld for the winter but I have no idea who's in possession or what you should expect. If you can find out, it'll keep you warmer than a seaside cabin.

Sorry for the short letter. Much to do.

-S

  


  


November 1

S,

Who else are you in touch with?

I did fine for over a decade without you fretting over me.

We all have much to do. 

-R

  


  


Nov 23

Moony, 

I fret over you plenty through the years I wasn't there to say it to you. Ignore it or not but there's nothing you can do about it happening. 

I've made you cross with my coded letter and rightly so. Let them intercept me then, here are my suspicions. I'm not writing anyone but you and Harry regularly (trying to fill my godfatherly duties in correspondence, for whatever difference it makes) and what additional letters I have gotten from certain headmasters who shall remain nameless have been limited in information. Mad-Eye's post worried me immensely, until this Triwizard nonsense put a Death Eater on the premises. Have you heard about this? Wizardly reconciliation my hairy arse. Harry's the fourth champion in the tournament, the second for Hogwarts, despite an age line put in place, yet he's still being compelled to compete under these conditions. Now has extended exposure to Igor Karkaroff behind closed doors. Throw in the Ministry's involvement in this whole charade and Bertha Jorkins' disappearance in Albania(!) — I don't need to tell you what that means. She worked for the Ministry, Moony. 

Call me insane (really, feel free, you wouldn't be out of line and I'd like to hear it from someone other than myself) but I think someone is setting Harry up for something. I'm of half a mind to withdraw him from school outright, which Dumbledore would (rightfully) not allow but nor will he communicate with me meaningfully about it. (Here I used several cleaning charms to siphon ink off the page. Let me be more tactful.) Installing an Auror at the school is very telling about what Dumbledore thinks, compared with his actions. Is he being this withholding with everyone, or am I special?

(This is all putting aside that there are hooded figures torturing Muggles in the bloody woods. We are doing what about this? Waiting is negligent. Am I in the minority thinking so? You must tell me if I’ve gone off, I mean it, I'd like to hear it confirmed. Seeing evidence of Death Eater activity everywhere I turn makes me feel insane. Out of prison five minutes and already clamping for a war — James would tell me to calm down. It feels like cheating to turn to you, you always agreed with me on these things. Has the wizarding world grown complacent or am I too vigilant? If I'm seeing these signs Dumbledore might have seen twice again, yet still Harry competes. You know Dumbledore better than me at this stage — is he slipping in old age? I erased all this only to write it again. Tell me what's real, Remus, I can't see it for myself.)

All that aside — no need to worry (rendered cheerfully with a rakish grin)! I'm not going to do anything rash about Wormtail, not now. Got enough reasons to stay free. Only hope the troops rally sooner rather than later, but that's not within my control is it?

I was short last letter for good reasons, hard to render. Awful time of year. From your reply I don't think I need to tell you that. Been thinking too hard about what should have been. Could be sitting in a seaside cabin myself waiting for you and Harry to come down from Hogwarts for the holidays. Instead this vile treachery has fucked us over yet again and still we suffer for their sins. Forgive the dramatics — disgusted it happened this way, halfway mad over not seeing how to do anything about it. I'll be glad to see spring. Had enough of these long nights already.

If I remember one thing from the war, it's that all sides are capable of the same things under the right conditions. Easier to keep on your toes when they're warm, that's all I meant.

Padfoot.

  


  


12/13/94

Padfoot,

Thank you for your lengthy correspondence. I shouldn't have been so curt — frankly shouldn't have written to you that day nor any day around it. Bad time of year as you say. 

Yours is the first I've heard of this Triwizard nonsense outside of the Prophet. (How scintillating their coverage of Harry. If one thing can be said about him, it's not that he's particularly effusive. Did you see his photograph trying to duck out of frame? Says enough.) It was against the rules for him to enter, yet they obliged him to compete? He's done well on the first challenge at least. What facts I've been able to discern from this shameful press has me sharing your concerns. The Ministry seems very involved — why? Still high off the Quidditch World Cup festivities perhaps. There's your generous interpretation. And we know how the QWC went.

I have not heard from Dumbledore in months, but I will write him now so your voice will not be alone. Suffice it to say I am not keeping additional information from you. I do hold a slightly different view on the state of the resistance — if we organize too early, we might set things in motion sooner than we'd like. Fear itself may cause damage, given room to breathe. But I do sound like the old codger. Maybe you're right — complacency is rampant, we've taken his word as gospel too long. I don't like sitting idle either. 

Needless to say I don't think a word of what you've said is mad. It’s not paranoia when there's evidence. That or we're a pair in conspiracy.

Heartening Dumbledore's willing to at least take some precaution with Mad-Eye. Likely the Ministry didn't like that — you know they all but forced his retirement. Says Dumbledore's alert to the situation, willing to push back. Things could be worse. Platitudes are little comfort, I suppose.

The sea and wind sounds at this time of year are useful — I don't need to go somewhere else to transform, so I will stay where I am for the time being. Imagine if I tried to tell you where to go for the winter! (Go somewhere warm, for Merlin's sake.) Let us trust that the other is not going to meet an untimely demise on his own recognizance, though I hope this turbulence wasn't what's driven you far enough north that you're using owls again. (I am finished, I swear.)

Promise to pass along anything more I hear. If you can think of some way I can help I'll happily take suggestions, but a werewolf romping through Hogwarts grounds is precisely what I resigned to avoid. A day trip to Hogsmeade perhaps, surely that won't invite suspicion. Times like these I wish Peter hadn't betrayed us unforgivably, he might have been a useful mole. I suppose Voldemort's side saw that clear enough.

Hope this letter finds you in time for the holiday. I think of you getting by and only pray you're taking care. If you happen to track me down in time, there's always a drink here with your name on it. Call it two, since it's Christmas.

Remus

  


  


Jan 7, 1995

Moony — 

Couldn't impose on you, though I was tempted. If it makes you feel better, I broke into someone's bungalow while they were abroad and passed a nice holiday eating them out of house and home. Thought about Flooing you, but then thought I might step clean through the fireplace at the sight of you, then grew concerned I might not go back. Then there'd have been a fugitive Hippogriff loose in a stranger's house, and who knows what madness might have followed. Opted for a low chaos holiday. Can't tell if you'd be proud or disappointed in my decisions so probably both.

Enough time talking only to Buckbeak and hoarding Daily Prophets like I'm no longer housebroken and any man would start to question his sanity. Your letter put me at ease personally, agitated me politically. Let me know if Dumbledore winds up answering you. I am stymied by limited access to owls but all I have gotten is that I must 'trust' that he 'has things under control.' Yes, Harry's being forced through hoops under your nose because you're so very 'in control'! I'm over it. Over him, Moony, truth be told. If you ever want to re-form the resistance ahead of his blasted schedule, let me know. Full disclaimer that allying yourself with me might land you in Azkaban — I know that's among your greatest fears, but at least we can commiserate through the bars.

Awful joke, sorry, Azkaban would kill you, please stay gone. It's why I've stayed gone. I took your invitation very seriously — even tracked you down, sorry to say. Trust you to go back there. I'll never tell a soul where you are, but I'm telling you so you can leave, if you want. Sometimes I wonder if you're humouring me, if you've changed your mind since our last encounter. I don't think it's true but I do think it. 

Here I thought I could write an upbeat letter. Helplessness is the mindkiller. Recently met another former inmate who told me some useful things — not of Azkaban, but that's not the only prison with Dementors. He was very forthright — anyone who spends any amount of time with those creatures suffers a period of great awfulness after. I'm struggling with it. Grief or fury, whatever this is. The trouble with dwelling on joy not actualized, blessing though it is to be able even to imagine it, is it has a habit of bogging you down. Anger keeps me upright most days — anger for Harry's sake, but for ours too. We should have had more time, Moony. Perhaps you agree.

As you wisely said, we're cracking at this perseverance business. I haven't forgotten it. 

Happy New Year, Moony. May 1995 be some kind of fucking improvement.

Padfoot.

PS. Did anyone ever get in touch with you about Grimmauld?

  


  


1/31/95

Padfoot,

I've put this off for several letters but now I'll be clear: I take full responsibility for what happened at Hogwarts and I am beyond sorry for having caused it. I was constantly careless when it came to you. It cost you, it cost Harry, cost everyone in ways we can't know the full extent of. I had long harboured a naive (irrelevantly, accurate) hope that you were innocent, to the point that I never once told a soul what I knew you could do or how you might've gotten in. Some part of me never let go of the idea that you could never have done it. That same desperation brought me to you that night without taking my potion. I can't recover a bit of my dignity from my actions. 

The more things fucking change — still impulsive in the face of you. If you'd have Floo'd me I'd have pulled you out of the fire myself. It's my fault that you're not here now and I'm beyond sorry for it, I can't tell you how much. Let this be the final word: if I have never in 24 years been able to finally change my mind about you, I am not about to start.

This is a terrible digression but worth mentioning — someone did get in touch with me about Grimmauld. Seems too much to congratulate you; I know you hated that place. Needless to say I am not there. Incidentally I read an article in the Prophet today that reiterated reading someone else's mail remains highly illegal. I know how you like to keep up on British wizarding laws.

I agree we have been too often robbed. Let me end there before creating more regrets.

Remus.

  


  


March 19

Moony — divest yourself of this guilt at once. I don't blame you for anything. If you hadn't arrived exactly when you did, I would have simply killed him. I wouldn't have a relationship with Harry and I would not be writing you now. I am infinitely richer that you were there without thought of delay for your wretched potion. All this ignores that had I known you were at the castle, I'd have behaved exactly as carelessly as you. If you're looking for someone to damn, damn us both.

A short letter, under the circumstances — I am days away but did not receive your letter for weeks. I can't tell on what end the delay. I am north (don't scold me) — the least I can do is be on the spot. I have no respect left for this fugitive life, I am exhausted from fear of interception, I don't want to continue these conversations constrained. But I am planted here for several months. Robbed again. I am sorry.

Seen our young ward — he is alright, thought you'd like to know. Brought his entourage to see me. Inseparable bunch. You are right that they are like us and not at all. I'm determined to make their future brighter than ours was, so there's a bit of heart.

What do you know about Ludo Bagman? Cracking Beater, but what else? How about Death Eater arms? I'd be more specific but the question stands so well on its own merit.

Happy belated birthday, Moony. It's not much only to think of you warmly, but I did and do, for whatever that counts. 

-Snuffles (it's new)

  


  


4/11/95

Snuffles (really?),

Be bloody careful. There is time for everything for as long as you stay free.

Turned up some interesting tidbits on old Ludo. One is that he was on trial, and acquitted, for collusion with the other side. No specifics as the trials were not made public, as you know — going off old Prophet articles only (Skeeter again!). Since her account mentions, as you say, that he was a cracking Beater, that may have been a factor in his acquittal. On the other hand he works for the Ministry now — but then Karkaroff runs a school. Doesn't life hold so many wonders.

Only other interesting bit I could turn up is that Bagman is something of a compulsive sports gambler. Owes four times his net worth to both the underworld and legitimate establishments. From the rumours I don't fancy his future.

Got nothing on arms, not sure where you were going with that. New fetish? (Sorry.)

Fallen completely out of the habit of celebrating my birthday — trust you to remember. You should know it counts a great deal. You know it's been fourteen years? I don't know why that's significant. We were 21 when it happened and it's been two-thirds that again. Certainly didn't expect I'd live this long, but there's a first time for everything.

The sun is out at last. I'm glad I weathered the winter here. Think I must be mad to feel hopeful given the omens, but there we are. If I leave here it will be because of money, not because you know the location. Saying so you don't have to ask.

If ever you need backup, you know how to find me.

Stay well fed and out of sight.

Moony

  


  


May 9

M,

I am finished taking time for granted. When Harry is safe, we'll find some for ourselves, mark me.

Most illuminating information, thank you. Sometimes feels like we're at war again, turning over every stone. He was sniffing around Harry. Strange I never came across his name before. Still things we don't know. Arms were a long shot (not a fucking fetish you deviant!) but thanks for checking.

Obviously I am still alive. I will breathe a massive sigh of relief when this tournament is over. Been writing more regularly with Dumbledore — we are on more even ground, if I don't understand all his actions. I agree he is aware of things, and we are making some preparations. Another rotten omen perhaps.

I planted my old homestead in our mail as proof of interception but the offer was not false. If it would give you a home base, don't hesitate — Dumbledore has the relevant information. If you settle elsewhere, understandable, that place is a pit of despair and disrepair in one, but please let me know your general area at your leisure. Pray it doesn't come down to it but there is no one I would rather have at my back in the worst of cases.

Take the best of cares, Moony.

S (is for Snuffles)

  


  


6/10

S,

Very shady news from up north. Not sure if Dumbledore's told you who seems to be at large in the area or his mental state but I wish you'd go somewhere else as soon as possible, tournament be damned. I have said it before: this is not worth your soul. If you are arrested because of this you will not be helping Harry at all.

I plan to stay put until further notice. Please be in touch when you can.

-R

  



	2. Chapter 2

  


Remus' cabin was not far south of the Pettigrews' old beach house—intentional, on Remus' part. The most anticipated part of Remus' adolescence had been the Marauders’ annual summer retreat to Swansea. Congregating at the cottage in the final weeks before school, days of sun and sea, nights of skinny dipping and contraband, the four of them had eased through pubescence most memorably here. Remus had occasionally had to leave early owing to the phase of the moon, but there was no beating the time they did get.

The sight of Sirius in Hogsmeade had led Remus to seek out his own past for the first time in 13 years. He'd surprised himself by craving it. Though Remus knew he wouldn't find Sirius physically, it was a comfort to think he might find him symbolically, unearthed in the annals of summer memory. He had been right. The cabin was a ramshackle one-room a few klicks southwest of Scurlage, with a view of the sea and a leaky roof. A natural choice in many respects—both sufficiently remote and within financial reach. There was no one around for a kilometre at least, but if Sirius wanted to look for him, Remus could be found. Being at Hogwarts had started the process of nostalgia, and he would finish it surrounded by landmarks of his youth.

It was a Muggle cabin, Scurlage a Muggle town, which offered Remus a reprieve from his recent shame. He wore Muggle clothes, did the Muggle shopping, and drove a rusting 1965 Citroen that needed regular encouragement from his wand to start. He presented himself as John Lyall—an old and insufficient cover that would throw off only the most cursory attempts to find him, but it would signal his presence to the people that mattered. He gained a local reputation as an eccentric novelist, lived a reclusive life down an overgrown road, and received such regular overlarge book deliveries from turned-around courriers that Remus finally arranged to pick up his shipments from the general store. 

It was a solitary existence, but Remus was well used to that. Aware of his budget, he kept humble habits: long walks along the cliffs, two meals a day, his greatest indulgence a proper kilo of tea. The summer was as rich and turbulent as expected; the smell of the ocean, the way sunrays illuminated rock, the sea breeze and high tides all set something off in him. Occasionally Remus caught himself weeping as he looked out over the cliffs. What was he mourning? What didn't he mourn? The jagged rocks beneath his feet hosted the remains of their abandoned innocence, shirked off or dashed and left behind. How little those shared vulnerabilities had come to matter in a few short years. Remus, who had spent his adolescence hiding one secret or another, now stood the most put together of the four. Dreams pronounced to these craggy shores had never been realized, not by any one of them.

The summer sun gave way to rains that coloured the leaves and dampened his heart. A familiar weight made its home in his chest. Grief turned to guilt, remembrance to regret. He lost his temper at the slightest inconvenience, his research dropped off, brandy replaced tea. A winter of bitter wind and brutal rain unmoored him entirely, and it took the vivid colours of Spring to bring him back to harbour. 

Writing to Sirius helped, or it hindered. Remus could not explain his unqualified trust in him, nor did he want to. Sirius’ letters suggested doubt would be natural, that Remus _should_ mistrust him: Remus, after all, had been mistrusted by Sirius, the man Remus had given most of himself. But after 13 years of doubt, Remus seemed now to have banished it altogether. He tried unsuccessfully to conceal his longing from the page, comforted only by the fact that Sirius seemed to struggle with the same. 

It occurred to Remus, now that he knew roughly where Sirius was, that he could be the one to end their mutual exile. He could leave Swansea and tarry north. He liked it here; ambitious sea spray found Remus’ face in the wind, reminding him of laughter and life. Staying at Hogsmeade for any length of time posed the same risks as Hogwarts, but how good it would be to speak freely! How right it would feel to understand what they faced and to face it together.

But after Sirius’ last correspondence, Remus had extended the lease on the cabin for an additional month. He was determined to be findable in case of Sirius' retreat after the tournament. He did not expect another letter for another week at least, but Remus would not go until he had news. The third task was two days finished; the _Prophet_, the rotten rag, had devoted only a small square of text to Harry’s winning, giving no details, downplaying the entire affair. It heartened Remus to know Harry had not only managed not to die, but that he’d won the whole blasted thing. Dumbledore must have been taking the right precautions all along. Madness, but measured: wanting to show the wizarding world what Harry Potter could do, that he would not be taken down. Remus’ bewilderment with Dumbledore grew each day, but he could not fault his results.

Remus spent the following day with an unusually light heart. Sirius must have been pleased; all that worry for nothing. Duelling with shadows, the pair of them. He looked forward to Sirius’ triumphant letter, now felt heartened in his decision to stay where he was—

A knock on the door roused him from his thoughts. Remus looked up from his makeshift desk—the cabin’s only functional surface, standing triple duty as prep space and breakfast nook. He rose, taking rapid inventory of his books as he passed. He was not expecting a delivery. It was possible he had ordered something and forgotten, but it must be a very old order to be delivered here—

His breath caught when he opened the door.

Sirius stood on his front stoop.

Remus held the door ajar, stunned out of his greeting. Sirius looked much more put together than he had in the Shack: he wore Muggle clothes that hung only just too loose, hands stuffed in the pockets of a varsity jacket. His waxen complexion seemed caught between healthy and gaunt, but he had shaved recently, his hair dancing in the wind. Determination sparked in his eyes, but he had clearly not had much sleep in days. 

His stance was casual, but engineered: one foot was positioned in front of the other, as though to balance him.

“It’s started," Sirius said, in lieu of greeting. 

One look at his face and Remus understood. He stepped aside. “Come in.” 

Sirius moved gingerly into the cabin, uncharacteristically sombre. The light inside was pale; Remus usually kept the curtains closed, preferring to read in lower light. Sirius seemed content to take time assessing his surroundings: as Remus shut the door, Sirius registered the books, the barren walls, and the manacles above the bed. 

A hint of amusement graced his features. “Same old Moony,” he said, twinkle in his eye.

“The chains are for wolfmoons," Remus said flatly.

“Of course.”

Out of direct sunlight, Sirius appeared more obviously healthier than he had a year ago. Though the sea air had left evidence of a flush on his cheeks, he looked very thin and tired. “What can I get you?” Remus asked, regaining himself, moving across to the hob. “Tea and what else?”

“Nothing. Really, nothing, I’ve been travelling.”

“All the more reason.”

“It’ll make me ill. Might have something when we’ve gotten through the bulk of it.”

Remus satisfied himself with preparing a pot of tea, needing something to do. Sirius stood in the centre of the room, looking around with unusual focus. It was an odd sight; Remus gestured to the open chair at the table, but Sirius shook his head, hands still in his pockets, black jeans bunched awkwardly over his boots. 

Remus had no idea how to approach him. He'd spent months waiting for this moment, but he wasn't sure if he'd ever thought it would really come. Incredible how young Sirius looked, gaunt as he was. If Remus unfocused his eyes, Sirius could just as easily have been sixteen years old, newly run away, having to suffer the generosity of others.

“Here,” Remus said, trying to break through his inertia. He gestured again to his usual chair, stepping forward to clear the other of books. A ratty green armchair sat in the corner, but there was only one of its kind and it had suffered severe water damage in a winter storm. “I’d offer you water, but better have tea. It’s one thing to bathe in it, another to ingest it without boiling it first—“

“Remus.”

Remus straightened. Sirius remained several paces away, grey eyes piercing.

“Recent events means I have to ask," Sirius said. "It’s not personal, and I hope you’ll forgive me." The apology was in his eyes. Things must be very dire indeed. "The man who betrayed us—what was his father’s name?”

It took Remus a moment to understand. “I know the answer,” he said, “and I will tell you. But if you’re checking for Polyjuice, I’d like to first ask you a question myself.”

“Alright.”

“Ah… Where did you steal that motorbike from in 1975?”

A slow smile spread over Sirius’ face. “I _told_ you I stole it from an Islington auto shop on my way to pick up Prongs." Exhaustion roughened his voice, like raked-over coals. “But actually I'd bought it from some bloke in the Muggle newspaper half a week earlier.”

Remus felt dazed. “What?" He gave a short laugh. "Really? Why on earth lie about it?”

“I had a reputation to maintain, didn't I?” Sirius nodded across the room. “Your turn.”

“Meurig Pettigrew," Remus said easily. "Mother Rian, sisters Megan and Gwen. Megan was five years older and Gwen seven. Gwen should have been out of Hogwarts when we got there but she had been held back a year due to a lasting childhood bout of Dragonpox—that was a gimmie, want another?”

“No," Sirius said, then added without taking breath, "Voldemort has returned to full strength.”

Remus had assumed it, but it was still a blow to hear. His mouth dried as shock took hold. “How?” he asked, leaning against the table's edge.

“Mad-Eye was replaced by Barty Crouch Jr., taking Polyjuice the whole year. Death Eater, if you'll remember, loyal to Voldemort. _Not_ dead as recorded. Made the Triwizard Cup into a portkey. When Harry claimed it, Wormtail used Harry’s blood to bring Voldemort back to full form in some kind of dark magic ritual Voldemort apparently invented. Harry only escaped on the sheer luck that Voldemort wanted to fucking _duel_ and that his and Voldemort’s wands share a core.” Sirius spoke calmly, but Remus understood what he meant when he said he might be sick: every cell in his body seemed to vibrate in silent fury. “The Death Eaters have assembled. Dumbledore sent me to gather the Order. We will not have the Ministry’s support. I'm hoping your name will have more leverage than mine with the old crowd."

When Sirius finished, Remus stared, lips parted. Only the shrill song of the kettle wrested him from stasis. “I see,” he said, and moved swiftly to the hob. After a moment's consideration, he moved the kettle to the sink, replaced the teapot in the cupboard, and pulled the long-stashed bottle of Firewhiskey out from behind a row of dusty glasses. “Start from the beginning,” he said, rincing a tumbler under the sink, “leave nothing out.” 

Sirius sank into a chair, accepted a drink with trembling hands, and talked until his voice ran ragged.

  


  


  


  


"What of Harry now?" Remus finally asked. They had abandoned alcohol once Sirius felt steady enough to accept something to eat, preferring clarity to inebriation. Evening was falling. The light in the cabin had dimmed enough that Remus, angry and restless, had lit a fire in the hearth, though it was nearly July. He craved the comfort of crackling flames, and as Sirius had not yet taken off his jacket, he imagined neither would mind another buffer against the chill that seemed to lurk in the cabin's corners.

Alcohol and commiseration had relaxed them, and their body language along with it. Sirius slouched in his chair, one elbow rested on the table, his feet splain out in front of him. It was a familiar pose: an exhausted variant on affected carelessness, intended to conceal his emotional state. 

Remus was tempted to pick Sirius' feet up and rest them in his lap: another familiarity, too forward for now.

"I don't know," Sirius said stonily, tearing a heel off the loaf of bread. Remus had provided him with a knife, but he seemed allergic to using it. "You'd think Dumbledore would agree he should be surrounded by wizards, but somehow I doubt it. I have been waging the 'I am his legal guardian' war with Dumbledore all year without getting anywhere. The Weasleys are at least a palatable option if he won't let me have custody; Molly clearly seems to have some kind of connection with Harry." Sirius did not quite manage to conceal his bitterness at this.

"Dumbledore is the final determinant, is he?"

"As he has decreed himself the only source of wisdom on what is best for Harry, I think he might believe himself Harry's guardian," Sirius said, waving his bread. "Worse, I don't have the leverage to fight him."

Another instinct narrowly aborted: to rest a soothing hand on Sirius' leg. "Surely Harry has a say."

"Harry did not want to compete in the Triwizard Tournament, but that was deemed irrelevant."

Sirius' tone made it clear his anger would not be shunned, but Remus knew him too well to think he was ignorant to the facts. Sirius was a fugitive. He could not walk freely without risking capture, which meant staying with him put Harry at tremendous risk. Caveating an acceptable alternative to his own guardianship of Harry made it obvious Sirius knew as much, so Remus would serve as ally alone.

"You do own Grimmauld."

"Such as it is," Sirius said darkly. "I've given it to Dumbledore for the Order, for better or worse."

Remus blinked in surprise. "Have you?"

"Best put to some kind of righteous use. I certainly don't intend to live in it." Sirius had evidently forgotten to eat the bread, instead tearing it systematically to crumbs. "I haven't stepped foot in it, I have no idea what it's like. It might be the worst decision I've made in recent memory, but"—a look of perverse amusement crossed his face—"I imagine what my mother would think of us using her house to combat dark wizardry and get a bit of a thrill."

Remus cut a slice of bread and tossed it to Sirius, lest he tear up the whole loaf. With a sheepish glance, Sirius reverted to eating. "Long story short, Dumbledore wouldn't have sent me away if he thought I was a safe harbour," he went on. "Maybe when we've settled, but as Dumbledore apparently believes that simpering, hateful excuse of an aunt can still offer Harry more protection from Voldemort than I can, I'm not holding my breath at seeing him in the near future." Sirius had told Remus everything about Harry's injuries: his exhaustion, Cedric Diggory's murder, Priori Incantatem and all that entailed.

"Dumbledore usually has his reasons."

"Usually." That same bitter tone again. "But if Voldemort can touch him now, I can't imagine the aunt is useful. The blood bond's been broken, hasn't it?"

But Remus leaned forward, pressing a hand to his mouth.

Sirius' reaction was immediate. "Oh, not you too."

"He may have a point."

"No, I don't want to hear it."

"Have you talked much with Harry about the past few years? About…" Remus trailed off, but Sirius cast him a brutal look, anticipating his caution. "Dementors, specifically."

"What about them?" Sirius said roughly.

"He's told you what he hears, when…?" But as Sirius stared, Remus opted again for expedience. "He has trouble with them. Lost a Quidditch match last year when they got too close. His reaction is worse than most."

"Makes sense, what he's lived."

"He can hear them dying, Padfoot. James and Lily. When the Dementors get near." 

Sirius' expression was blank. So Harry hadn't told him. 

"Harry's somehow got a perfect memory of their final moments. It's excruciating to him, and… it's not normal. It shouldn't happen. Pomfrey tells me he cannot possibly process it—because it's not his. It's most likely a superimposition. He was too young to understand the events as they occured, but there they are. Every time the Dementors come by, he is forced to relive that moment—and it makes no sense that he should be able to." 

Sirius' eyes stayed square with horror. "He's bound with Voldemort," Sirius croaked, abandoning his food. "Harry told us as much himself. His encounter with him, what happened… his scar keeps burning, when Voldemort's power flares." He looked at Remus. "It's not his own memory he's hearing. That's what you're saying. It's Voldemort's."

"That's what I think," Remus said. Sirius put his head in his hands. "It's the nature of what happened—that Harry didn't just survive the killing curse but that it was reflected, that it hit and should have killed them both. Voldemort was offered no sacrifice of love, but Harry was, so Voldemort fractured and imprinted on him somehow." Remus leaned back with a sigh, sorry to say it. "We don't know anything about the magic that saved Harry. A blood tie isn't _misguided_, as ideas go."

"You don't need to remind me about blood ties." 

That much was true. How long had Sirius been trying to get out from under his name only now to have contributed to its legacy? 

"Dumbledore knows Voldemort respects his power too much to approach Hogwarts," Remus said. "And outside of Hogwarts, the best protection is still the kind of magic Voldemort can't predict."

"But Voldemort took him out of Hogwarts." Sirius' voice was quiet, but the agitation was plain on his face. "Didn't he? Dumbledore's not in control anymore. He won't admit it. We warned him something like this would happen, with the tournament, with Harry—and he ignored it. He was careless, he… he knew." Sirius said it with faint realization. "He let me onto the grounds, during the third task. He _knew_ this would happen; he allowed it. And now... now we're supposed to trust he knows what's best for Harry?" Sirius' fist clenched against the table. "He might know everything under the cosmos from what I can reckon, but I'll be damned if he's acting on Harry's best interests." 

Of course Dumbledore had guessed it; that was obvious now. The pair of them had done nothing but warn him about it since the tournament began, and Remus doubted they were the only ones who had. Sirius had said it himself: _If I'm seeing these signs, Dumbledore might have seen twice again._

"He didn't expect this," Remus said, though his tongue felt heavy. "A student died on his watch. He might have guessed something, but he didn't want this."

"Then what in blazes _did_ he want?" 

Remus saw raw power flaring under this layer of abandon. "He wanted to catch the traitor in his midst before they took a cue from Wormtail and caused collateral beyond our wildest dreams," he told Sirius. "He did not expect Voldemort to strike. He did not expect he'd be brash enough to take Harry out from under his nose. Whatever he predicted would happen—"

"I don't give a solitary fuck what his expectations were," Sirius spat, "when he _clearly_ knew what the Tournament was leading up to, when _all_ the signs were there that Harry was being targeted! And he did what to stop it? Nothing! Nothing, Remus. If he did _nothing_ to stop Voldemort getting to Harry once, why should I believe he won't allow it again?"

"Sirius, listen to yourself. Dumbledore does not want Harry hurt. That is _why_ he sent him to the Muggles." 

"The blood bond is broken. Pay attention, Remus. That's why Voldemort needed Harry in the first place."

"We don't know that it's broken."

"I don't care. I really don't. It is criminal to take him out of the wizarding world on a whim and a prayer. If it's meant to be love that protects Harry, then the only reason not to let Harry live with me is because Dumbledore doubts my capacity for it." 

"Don't do this to yourself," Remus said at once, but it was too late; Sirius looked up as though struck by his own words. "Let this stand as condemnation in itself: if Dumbledore's sending Harry back to the Muggles, I doubt he's thinking of you at all."

"And why shouldn't he doubt it?" Sirius muttered, as though Remus hadn't spoken. "After twelve years in Azkaban, who wouldn't?"

"I don't, not for a second. Sirius, listen to me." He did not take Sirius' hand, but he imagined it. "Dumbledore's too focused on the magic angle to remember what actually saved Harry's life. We know those Muggles would throw Harry to the wolves given half a chance, and so does Dumbledore. He clearly thinks blood is what matters. His focus is wrong. That's no commentary on you."

If Sirius was heartened, Remus could not tell. He looked at Remus as though seeing right through him. 

"He doesn't care about Harry at all," Sirius rasped.

"Harry's sanity isn't his primary concern," Remus agreed, "but I do think he's acting to save Harry's _life_. Dumbledore is misguided. We can and will make our concerns clear. We'll sit him down and demand information. But given that we are comparatively in the dark, on Voldemort and in general—"

"And whose fault is that?" Sirius croaked. "Certainly not ours."

"He led us through the war. It is Dumbledore that Voldemort is afraid of, not us."

"And have we ever asked why that is?" Sirius, again picking up speed. "Have we ever asked why a sorcerer capable of more horrors than we can even _comprehend_ could be afraid of, of, of an aging old crank who's set to drop dead at the first curse he intercepts? What is there left to fear, if you're Voldemort, but a sorcerer whose power is even more terrible than your own?"

"That's why we need Dumbledore on our side."

With a flash in his eyes, Sirius picked up the nearest book and threw it violently across the room. 

Remus watched the book as it hit the wall. A nearby teacup followed—hopping from its hook, shattering against the floor.

Then silence.

Sirius held up a hand. "Sorry," he said quietly. "Sorry."

"No great loss," Remus offered. "I only use the one cup."

Sirius' gaze snapped up. He looked tempted to take the deflection, but it turned out he was too stubborn for that. "We were right about this," he said, affecting artificial neutrality. "Instead of listening or doing anything about it, Dumbledore let Harry get _bled out_ in some insipid calculation." Already cracks in his calm. "He's playing chess with a tyrant—"

"It's alright."

"It is not alright!" Sirius shouted at once. "It is not. I am sick and bloody tired of sacrificing _everything_ for a power struggle ranking above our station. Twenty years on and we are still nothing but pawns in Dumbledore's game."

Remus caved to instinct and reached for Sirius' hand where it sat bunched against the table. He was surprised but gratified when Sirius grabbed his back, as though he'd only been waiting for Remus to do it. "We fight, Sirius," he said quietly, leaned toward him. "That's what matters. We influence the course of this war. We are not only pawns. How many lives have we saved? How many children were born because their parents survived? I understand your frustration. Dumbledore won't listen to reason, and it's infuriating. But you said yourself that we can't stand idle—"

"I'm not suggesting it," Sirius said coarsely, pulling his hand free. All these years later and Remus still felt the withdrawn affection as a personal affront. "Standing idle is the problem."

"We can make our views known to Dumbledore, and stand by them. We can support Harry directly, in letters and information. We can make clear that we don't agree with Dumbledore's decisions."

"You are ignoring the key point of this conversation: I do not trust Dumbledore with Harry's safety anymore. Every suggestion you have made assumes we are still allowing him to run roughshod—"

"But as none of us are prepared to rise to Dumbledore's level of power… I'm sorry, Padfoot, I don't see another way."

Sirius pounded a fist against the table. "Dammit, Remus, would you break from the pack for once in your life!"

The words rang in Remus' ears; another shattering cup. Sirius set a stifling hand at his mouth, regret clear on his face in the flickering light.

"Voldemort is not afraid of us," Remus said quietly at last. "We are weak to his tactics. Look how thoroughly he tore us apart last time. It is not safe for us, or for Harry, to break off from the Order on this."

"We can still be part of the Order."

"If we do not trust Dumbledore to the point where we are removing Harry from his care—that includes withdrawing him from Hogwarts, by the way, which means he will not be able to practice magic on his own"—Sirius hissed and hid his mouth behind a hand—"then Dumbledore will not trust us as part of the Order. This is a situation of give and take. It is _not_ fair to Harry; I agree. I would also say it's not fair to you. But this is war, Sirius. Fairness is no longer the factor at hand."

Sirius did not reply. He ran his knuckles across his mouth, staring moodily into the fire.

"I'm just trying to do right by James' son," he said at last. "I'm his godfather, for Christ's sake. But in Dumbledore's world it seems to count for nothing who they saw fit to name protector."

"You are protecting him. The fact of your anger proves you're up to the task." Remus nudged Sirius' leg with one socked foot. "We will talk to Dumbledore. As soon as the Order convenes, we will sit him down together, I promise you."

Sirius met his eye in quiet defeat. For a long moment, the only sound was the fire crackling in the hearth.

Then Sirius sat up straight, as though tired of himself. He frowned at his sleeve, then shook it, pulling out a wand and setting it on the table. "Holed up Buckbeak in that cave in the northern banks," he said, trying to sound normal. He pointed to the whiskey with raised eyebrows, which Remus took as a signal to pour another round. "Remember that old swimming hole? Surprised it was still there."

"Swimming hole," Remus repeated dubiously.

"We swam there. Had that tidal pool with a tendency to get warm."

"Yes, I remember your 'skinny dipping' excuses."

"We _did_ go skinny dipping."

"And how convenient that nudity for other activities."

Sirius flashed a roguish grin, and for a sharp, fleeting moment, he looked fifteen years younger. "Multitasking, Moony."

Remus smiled, no concern for restraint. Something in it brought solemnity back onto Sirius' face. As quickly as his youth had appeared, it was now gone; he looked exhausted, as though the momentary reprieve had drained him of his energy. In the room's low light, his eyes sat deep in their sockets, bones casting shadow. 

"Are you alright?" Remus said. It was an immensely stupid question, but he would rue not having asked.

Sirius leaned back with his drink, gave a short sigh. "I don't know. Yes. Not at all." He shot Remus a thin smile. "How are you? You look…"

"Tired," Remus provided. "Grey."

"Good. A bit grey, yes, but it suits you." Eyes cast low. "Very good, Moony, if I'm being honest."

"It's the low light."

"Dumbledore told me you've sort of hobbled along. I was sorry to hear it, but…"

"As you can see," he said, gesturing around the cabin, "I've turned it around magnificently."

Sirius smiled, plainly not convinced. "It's warm, it's quiet. It's out of the way. It reeks of you, Moony." 

Remus gave a short laugh. "I have every confidence that's literally true."

"I'm not sure what I imagined, but I'm glad you've… I'm glad to see you, Remus," he resolved, raising his chin. "I'm bloody glad to see you, after everything."

Warm tension grew between them. Finally down to the business of reconciliation, Remus found himself rooted a second time. It would be too much to kiss him, the wrong time for admission; he craved simplicity, some obvious rapprochement, something to encourage vulnerability on. Remus wanted to hear his words, his laughter, the tones of his voice. The specifics didn't matter as much as the cause.

"How did you forgive me so fast?" Sirius asked, before Remus could think of something to say.

It took Remus a moment to realize the question. "You're innocent, Padfoot. There was nothing to forgive."

"That's not what I mean. I know your passions, I know how ferocious you are about some things. I know your grudges—"

"I may once have been capable of holding a grudge. Not much anymore."

"I don't believe that for a second."

"Our lives are very different now, I don't need to tell you."

"I'm not talking about Snivelly—I was made to shake hands with him, by the way, for the Order," Sirius said with distaste, and Remus was helpless but to laugh at the look on his face. "Set to see a lot more of that git in the near future, more's the pity. I'm saying I know what we meant to you: the Marauders, how that mattered. You managed to be as dedicated as me to keeping us all together."

"We all were."

"Clearly not all," Sirius said flatly.

"No, forget Wormtail. You, me, and James all took our lumps to ensure we stayed together at one time or another."

Sirius frowned at this, but seemed to decide it wasn't the time to pursue it. "I remember—forgive me for bringing it up—"

"I think we _should_ bring it up."

"The second it became apparent to me that you weren't the mole, that it was Wormtail all along…" He trailed off, guilt plain on his face.

"Don't blame yourself."

"Why not?" Urgency flashed in Sirius' eyes. "And why don't you? You trusted me as you trust so few, and I took that and cast it into the fire."

"Sirius—why have you forgiven _me_? Thirteen years of distrust amounts to a lot more than your flickers of doubt—"

"I had a lot more than flickers. I fancied myself a spy, Remus, I stayed with you to extract information." 

Remus felt his brow ripple. He had spent so long avoiding any thought of those awful few months, the slow collapse of their relationship into argument and distrust. Even in the year since he and Sirius had been in touch, he hadn't gone near those memories, thought them best left alone—was now forced to reckon with them unprepared. 

"I talked to James about it," Sirius said. "Sowed the seeds of doubt among our family. Took everyone away from you long before Wormtail managed it, simply by suspecting."

"It doesn't matter now."

"Why not?" His eyebrows peaked in what looked like a plea. "Shouldn't it matter? It sure as all hell matters to me."

"It does not matter to me," Remus said firmly, "because through all of that doubt and fury and betrayal and abandonment, even in the deepest pits of hell after all that happened, there was still not a day that went by that I didn't think you might suddenly display your innocence." 

Remus paused to breathe, trying to let calm win over. Sirius did not take the opportunity to interject. He seemed, from his face, to want to hear Remus talk as much as Remus wanted it from him. "Make no mistake, Padfoot: I believed you had done it. I thought you had killed James and Lily and Peter, and countless others in the Order. Taken everything from me."

"I did."

"You did not. I am not saying this correctly. The thing I wanted most in the world, Sirius, was not to have been wrong about you." 

Feeling had taken hold; his words came breathlessly, as though frantic to be released. He was saying too much, sure he'd regret all of this, but Sirius did not stop him; only watched him, flames dancing in his eyes. 

"I would have, at many points, given anything to have James and Lily back," Remus said. "Anything. I'd have traded my life for theirs in an instant, given the bargain. I mourned them awfully, endlessly; it was not fair, it was betrayal, it should never have happened. But what I _wanted_ most was not to have misjudged you. It was selfish. I didn't want the crime undone near so much as I wanted that. You think I should be angry with you for thinking I could be capable—but I thought you capable. I know you as you know me. You are _powerful_, you are fiercely loyal, and you longed for family. The Potters, the Marauders, the Order were poor substitutes for—"

"You weren't," Sirius interjected, voice thin.

"I thought being a Black suddenly mattered to you." He splayed his hands over his chest. "Crucify _me_, Sirius. I believed it for 13 years."

Sirius shook his head. "It's what the evidence showed."

"Precisely. That's what Death Eaters do. They sow distrust and watch everything burn. You saw the Order dying, one by one; you saw Lily and Alice pregnant in the midst of all this. You saw Wormtail acting unlike himself. And you saw me—having trained up my neutrality in order to function as a werewolf in wizarding society, keeping secrets from you on Dumbledore's orders. And you did what you had to do to protect the innocent." Remus gestured broadly. "Am I wrong about any of this?"

Sirius swallowed hard before answering. "No."

"So no, I do not blame you. The war broke us down, Sirius. What we falsely believed under the duress of war does not matter to me. I am sorry; Merlin, I am so sorry for it. But we were victims, both of us. All that matters to me is what I believed naively, insanely, and _correctly_ during those thirteen years: that the man I knew, as I knew him, could not have done this. All those years, all I wanted was to have been right about you. And I was. That is the past that matters to me."

At last Remus ran out of steam. He had been angling toward some romantic confession, the kind of sweeping declaration their letters concealed. Cowardice, that familiar friend, reared its head again: instead of taking a risk, he let the sentence die, forced to breathe under its weight.

Sirius stared at him, swallowing hard. "When you first embraced me in the Shack," he said, voice barely louder than the fire, "it ruined me. It had been so long since anyone touched me at all, let alone with any tenderness. Seeing Harry, facing Wormtail… I handled that, I had my composure. Until you."

Remus' heart beat loudly in his ears.

"I was in Azkaban for 12 years," said Sirius.

"I know."

"Dumbledore might be right about me."

"You just sat across from me and did everything short of threatening Dumbledore in service of keeping Harry safe." He said it so fiercely that Sirius laughed. "You can't make me doubt your capacity for love, Sirius. Give it up."

Sirius' grin lingered as he glanced around the cabin. It was clear he was petrified; sweat gathered at his temple. "Dumbledore suggested I lie low here for a while," he said quietly.

"You are more than welcome."

"I only bring it up because… I think it might be awkward if we go to bed together on the first night." He gestured vaguely. "Who knows how long we might need to stay."

Remus cast an eye cynically around the room. "As I only locate one bed in these five square meters, it might be more awkward if we don't."

"I can kip in the cave."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"I'm used to it, Moony, I don't want to—"

"Shut up," Remus said loudly, kicking the leg of Sirius' chair, and Sirius laughed deeply, exposing his throat. "Would you please stand up? I have been trying to figure out how to kiss you while sitting at this table for the last several minutes, it's a disaster, we have to move, and if you're looking to be swept off your feet you're doing a piss poor job of setting it up."

Sirius flashed him a crooked grin and got to his feet. "Whatever you say, Moony," he said fondly, shedding his jacket partway, but Remus wasted no time in taking him into his arms. 

Sirius became gently trapped: his arms were caught in his sleeves, his breath caught in his chest, body caught in Remus' hands as they set at his back, knotted in his hair. Sirius' smile fell at once. Heat wafted off him when Remus pulled him in; Sirius let it happen when Remus turned him on his heel and backed him against the table, when he held him there, their hips pressed close.

"Christ, you're seductive," Sirius murmured, not bothering to free himself.

Remus smiled, slow, lousy with affection. "You might be the only person in the world to think so."

Sirius slowly pulled one arm from his coat, then let it hang off the other and slip onto the floor. He pressed a hand to Remus' neck, palm fitting against his pulse. The air hung heavy between them. Desire thrummed in Remus' body, in Sirius', he could feel it, but he would not rush this for anything. 

Sirius' hand wandered, cupping his jaw, thumb crossing his lips, pulling across two days of grey stubble. Remus turned greyer every year; the wolf taking over, or so he grimly thought. He wondered what Sirius thought of the look of him, the feel. Remus' face had become deeply lined in places, around the eyes and by his mouth; he wore more years than he'd lived. But that had always been true. 

Sirius' hair was exactly the same: a swarthy mop, coarser but clean. Remus sank his fingers into it; moved a hand under the cotton of Sirius' shirt, brushed his fingers at the hair just below his navel.

"This is quite mean of you," Sirius said breathlessly.

Remus indulged himself—set his lips to Sirius' neck, mouthed just below his ear. Took in the smell of desire when Sirius' breath broke, when his fingers gripped tight in Remus' hair.

"Is this not what you want?" Remus asked against his throat.

"I can hardly take it," Sirius said, a thick whisper. "Just have me on the table, Moony, I can't handle your care."

Remus would not have him on the table; not today, or at least not at this moment. He would do as he liked, which was to take his sweet time. He kissed him with the reverence that lived in him, those embers tended in the hearth of his heart; he took as long as it took to make himself known. And when Sirius, finally overcome, gripped his shoulders hard enough to support his own weight, Remus swept him off to make up at last for fourteen miserable years apart.

  



	3. Chapter 3

  


Sirius refused to rest against him in any normal way, but that was to be expected. Sex with Sirius was so often only the first order of business in the course of an evening, never soporific as it was with Remus. In their youth he would have insisted on talking, or taken off to find James while Remus slept.

It was Remus who hadn't begun to think of sleeping now, and Sirius who kept nodding off. He had rested his head against Remus' chest, a sheet thrown lazily over his hips, and propped his legs up against the wall perpendicular to the bed.

"Go to sleep," Remus told him, the fourth time Sirius jerked himself awake.

"No."

"At least lie down properly."

"I like this too much."

"You can stare at your feet tomorrow."

"I want to stare at my feet now." Sirius craned his head back to shoot him a glare. "You shag me speechless and now you want me to go to sleep. Almost like you don't like talking to me, Moony."

"I never like it when you talk."

Sirius grinned, knowing better. "Got this mad craving for a cigarette," he said, pulling Remus' arm across his chest and securing it there.

"Really?"

"A proper No.6—those awful things." Cigarettes had been forbidden at Hogwarts, and a longstanding, only partially true rumour was that Hogsmeade had banned tobacco from its borders specifically because Sirius kept trying to ferret some out. In fact pipe tobacco was widely available, and Sirius managed to take up a brief but memorable love affair with a pipe through most of sixth year, ended only because it turned out to impact his Quidditch. Over the summers, and moreso again after graduation, Sirius had reached for cigarettes instead, especially when stressed or feeling rebellious. _Easier_, he would say, or to others, _Much cooler-looking than a pipe_. 

He did tend to like one after sex, especially near the end. All that restless energy to burn. 

"Haven't craved one in years," he went on. "Something about sex, I—"

But Sirius cut off when Remus came up with a pack of Players and a lighter from his bedside table. "They're not 6's," Remus said idly. "Discontinued those two years back."

"Moony," Sirius breathed reverently. "You haven't picked it back up."

"From time to time, in my lower moments." It was tempting to respond to Sirius' inquiry with the truth: that, as with the Firewhiskey, Remus had bought them months ago on the off-chance Sirius might show up here. He had predicted Sirius' craving for luxuries he'd long lived without, wanting to anticipate the gamut of possibilities. 

Resting a cigarette between Sirius' pink and ragged lips for him, Remus relished in the intimacy of lighting it behind a cupped hand. Sirius tilted his head back and inhaled with flourish, embers burning orange in the room's low light. 

He examined the cigarette at arm's length; then, abruptly, coughed the smoke out of his lungs with severity, winding up curled over himself on the bed with the effort. 

"Awful," he rasped as Remus grinned and rubbed his back. Replacing his feet against the wall, he passed the cigarette to Remus. "Can't believe you just gave that to me."

"I learned long ago I can't stop you doing anything." 

Sirius was fidgeting characteristically, resting and re-resting his head against Remus' chest. Remus settled easily into the embrace as he smoked; they were well practiced at lying around waiting for something to happen.

"You're very good at this," Sirius said quietly.

"At smoking?"

"Sex." 

"Noticed, did you?"

"I mean you're better."

It was short, loaded with meaning. "I was always good at sex, thank you."

"Yes."

Remus set an ashtray by Sirius' side. "Are you going to ask, or shall I intuit your question?"

Sirius craned his neck to look at him, then clicked his tongue and took the cigarette back.

"I thought you didn't want it."

"Leave me to my awfulness." Sirius did, this time, manage not to cough out half a lung, though he did wheeze feebly on the tail end of his exhale. "Am I interrupting anything, Remus?"

"No," Remus said at once.

"Have you made sure I wasn't interrupting anything?"

"No." In response to Sirius' skeptical glance, he added, "It may surprise you, Padfoot, to learn none too many are keen to go to bed with a werewolf. Not on a regular basis, at least."

"You can't have spent all that time alone."

"I enjoyed a fruitful period in my twenties, when I thought it was ethical to try to bury my feelings in men who did not give enough of a damn about me to notice anything remiss. Then, of course, the AIDS crisis picked up, I grew shy of certain risks, my mother died, I was appearing increasingly shabby through the worst of a recession… Things became dire enough that I retired to a cabin in Yorkshire not entirely unlike this one to content myself with passing trysts under an assumed name." He reached for the cigarette, glancing at Sirius only long enough to register his grave expression. "But I did have a good time through parts of it."

"That's the spirit," Sirius said flatly. By means of the cigarette, exhaustion, or the passage of time, his voice had achieved a rare baritone quality. He generally sounded the way Remus remembered, only striking in a way: Remus' acquaintance with the sound contrasted with its unfamiliarity. Like the frenetic rise of his performative turns, his voice felt known to Remus in form, though its tenor had changed. 

"It's been six years at least since I saw anyone seriously," Remus said, "if that's what you're asking. The few relationships I did manage were marred by paranoia on three fronts: first that they would notice I was never free over the full moon, second that they would register me with the Ministry if they did find me out, and third that they would turn out to be evil mass murderers masquerading as trustworthy lovers." He handed the cigarette to Sirius with raised eyebrows. "That latter concern has faded somewhat in the past year or so."

Sirius acknowledged the joke only with a thin smile. "A year is plenty of time, Moony."

"True. But there is only one man for whom none of those concerns apply. And that's putting aside my admittedly inconvenient but very genuine affection for you, Sirius. You seem keen to dissuade me."

"Yet you're twice as stubborn as me, I see."

"No one's as stubborn as you."

"James was twice as stubborn as me."

"That's true."

"And Evans twice him again. As Gryffindors go, I'd say I'm solidly middling."

Remus hummed, passing an affectionate hand over Sirius' flank. "It's a wonder any of us got along."

"You know what they say, Moony: those who dig in together, stay together."

Remus thought involuntarily of the Order's pending reformation and suppressed a thrill of anxiety. "Merlin," he muttered, taking the cigarette back. "Think I'm just realizing what doing all this again entails."

Sirius murmured his assent, heaving a sigh. "I'll play nice with Dumbledore," he said suddenly, with an airy tone that left Remus with lingering suspicions. "For the good of the movement. I accept the necessity of unity. The ends are bigger than… well, it occurs to me I may not be behaving with perfect rationality when it comes to Harry either." This last he rendered with a bitter tone. As though to convey he was serious, he dropped his legs from the wall and rolled over to look at Remus upright. "But if Dumbledore tries to enlist you for spy work again… you ought to tell me. No matter his orders."

"Unquestionably."

"I understand the risks involved in disclosure, but I don't care. They may torture us for information—"

"Then we'll die together."

How the years had changed them that Sirius met this declaration only with grim satisfaction. 

"I'll ask the same of you, of course," Remus added.

"Of course."

They stared a long moment in the low light of the room. The fire had long since smouldered; the only light on was over the door, casting their corner in shadowy dusk. Sirius took Remus' hand with peculiar tenderness, pressed the knuckle of his thumb to his peeling lips—held it there, his eyes closed, breath slow in his chest as though giving thanks.

It took Remus a few seconds to register the tremble in Sirius' hand. "Padfoot," he said quietly, cupping Sirius' jaw; but Sirius leaned into it for only a moment before turning his back to him.

"I'm unbearably fragile," he said coarsely, flopping onto his back. "Don't mind me. I'm very lucky you're so forgiving, Moony," he added, before Remus could respond. "Almost like amassing a family again, isn't it? If only there wasn't this blasted war."

Remus looked at him sharply for wrenching his heart just so. Sirius seemed not to notice; he stared at the ceiling, smoking idly, head rested comfortably by Remus' ribs.

Suddenly it all seemed too much: being handed everything he wanted only as the catastrophes of war lurked around the corner. Life's give and take at times seemed zero sum. He had, in youth, long mourned his chance at a normal life only to be handed the only friends in the world who would upheave their lives to keep him company in his darkest hours. 

Peace, again, coming only at the cost of their loss.

"Do you think Wormtail ever loved us?" Sirius asked, as though reading his mind.

Remus took a deep breath. "Yes," he said honestly. "Until war broke out, I think he loved us very much."

He hadn't known how Sirius would take it, but he only took another drag. "How comforting it might have been," he said quietly, "to be able to think he was evil, instead of just weak."

A rotten claustrophobia scrabbled at Remus' chest. They were simply lying in wait for the arrival of destruction.

He flipped open the cigarette carton, looking for reprieve, only to take its inventory and cast it aside. His eyes focused instead on the Firewhiskey across the room. His hand glanced fondly across Sirius' sternum as he slipped out from under him. "Want your drink?" Remus asked, ignoring Sirius' scowl. 

"It'll only put me to sleep."

"Good." Remus brought it over. "I'm topping mine up, shall I—"

But Sirius had sat up to drain it quickly and now shook his head as he handed Remus the empty glass. "Christ," he croaked, and half-coughed a strained laugh. "Is this your life now, Moony? I'm only barely keeping up."

"Indulgence on account of war." 

As Remus moved around the room, Sirius watched him openly, and Remus knew it. Sirius had always taken careful stock of Remus' body, his scratches and scars. Never having gotten used to it, Remus turned away, same as he always did. He had reduced his wolfmoon preparations to a ritual science; the manacles and chains stick-charmed above the bed, once fortified with charms and cursed to make Remus extremely sleepy, did a fine job of protecting himself and the town. He now caused himself much less damage than he had in his youth, but it was not a perfect process: some scars were new, others slow to disappear. The original marks, from Greyback's mauling, had grown along with him for thirty years. Toothmarks stretched artfully over his arm, a sordid tattoo.

"Uh, Moony," Sirius said abruptly; Remus braced himself for the question. "Tell me that's not what I think it is."

Remus followed his gaze, which was set not on him but on something at the foot of the bed. Covered in a cloth and heavily laden with books, it mostly looked like a table—the reason Sirius hadn't noticed it before now.

Remus withheld his smile and cleared its surface of items. The phonograph was still in working order, its cover only gently scuffed. It was Sirius', from years ago—the only thing preserved from their flat during the war. Sirius had made a point of acquiring Muggle customs as a final flip-off to his parents. He'd pumped Remus and Peter about the Muggle sides of their families, rotated a few Muggle swears into his vocabulary, and started to wear Muggle clothing when he could get away with it, claiming he disliked the uniformity of wizard's robes. Eventually he acquired a few Muggle relics to wrap it all up: cigarettes, turntables, motorbikes he would later make fly. 

"You kept it all these years?" Sirius asked. 

"I wish I had."

"It's not the same one."

"It is." He hesitated to tell the story, but there was no sense hiding the past from him now. "When I got back to the flat after… after," he amended, "I took one look around and flew into a rage. Destroyed everything we owned, anything that reminded me of you. Might've gone so far as to burn the place to the ground if Dumbledore hadn't intervened." Sirius watched him talk, but he looked as though only thing that mattered was that the turntable was saved. "Dumbledore pulled it out of the wreckage, or so I assume—without my knowledge, of course. He must have repaired it, held onto it… sent it back to me a few years ago."

"A few years," Sirius said hoarsely.

"Four or five, I don't remember." Of course he remembered. It had been just after the tenth anniversary, when Dumbledore had sent the damn thing by owl along with a letter detailing Harry's Halloween scuffle. _I hesitate to ascribe any element of his parents' legacy to Harry without his consent,_ the letter read, _but Pomona, Filius, and Wilhelmina were amused to the point of inconsolability upon Minerva's delivery of the news that James Potter's son had managed to duel a troll before completing his first two months at Hogwarts. He is a moral boy, stubborn and brave, and shows tremendous talent for ingenuity as well as for trouble. James would be immensely proud of him, as, I expect, would you._

It'd been a dirty trick for Dumbledore to send such a thing in that context, especially knowing Remus spent his autumns in a state of despair. Remus might have just as easily thrown it into the trash given the reminder of what Sirius had caused. Instead he had kept it, surprising even himself. "Shoved it away in the deepest hollows of my trunk," Remus told him, "to gather dust, mostly, until I arrived here." The embarrassment of admission led Remus to duck out of sight, pulling an album out of its stand. "Unfortunately, your vinyls were not so easily mended; I'm told they never sounded right after repair. But I did manage to replace one or two." 

As Sirius watched silently, Remus flipped the record onto the turntable and set the spindle. The crackle of vinyl joined the sound of the dying fire; then warm guitars filled the cabin, a familiar tune of Crosby, Stills, and Nash.

Finally Sirius seemed to find his voice. "I haven't heard proper music in," he managed, before the words died in his throat.

Remus studied him, flush with affection, then set his drink at his bedside and slid into bed. 

"Bloody everything wounds me," Sirius muttered, sinking against him, propping his feet back up on the wall. He finished the cigarette with flourish; stubbed it out in the ashtray. "I am constantly raw." 

Remus thumbed a tear gently off his nose. "You've done unaccountably well."

"Kind rubbish." He nudged the edge of the phonograph with his foot. "Mad that you kept this, of all things."

"Yes, you wouldn't believe how much space it took up. Might've fit some more research in that compartment."

Sirius snorted, reaching blindly for the cigarettes. "How were you not in Ravenclaw?"

Remus handed him the carton just to stop him groping. "Lycanthropy, I expect."

"That old lark."

"Just showing up at Hogwarts with that affliction was brave enough to trump the rest."

Sirius smiled as he lit the cigarette, tossing the lighter carelessly aside. "This is very good, Moony," he said, gesturing to the turntable. "Thank you for…" He swallowed hard, eyes focused on the stick in his hand. "You can't know what it means to feel this way again. Trust it'd be from you."

Remus did not respond, preferring to let Sirius smoke as they listened through 'Judy Blue Eyes'. They could not have planned it, but both sang the chorus in barely more than a murmur—_I am yours, you are mine, you are what you are,_ a melody giving way to mutual waves of laughter sourced low in their chests, a rumbling tide. 

They exchanged a grin, the cigarette passing again into Remus' hand. "What about you?" Remus asked, smoking deeply. "Was that your first shag since prison?"

"Of course it was," Sirius scoffed.

"Don't know why I find that surprising."

"I was hardly fit for it." There was an odd undercurrent to his tone, like he was making an excuse. "Plus not too many would have a go with fugitive Sirius Black. And," he said, gesturing for the cigarette, "even if I was boisterous enough in the first year to sustain a hard-on for any meaningful amount of time“—Remus laughed in surprise, reigniting Sirius' smile—"there was still the matter of the hair down to my arse and twelve years' worth of rot in my teeth. Hardly screamed 'desirable sexual prospect'."

"Prison chic?"

"Might've tried a club or two with it, you're right."

Remus was smiling again. "You've cleaned up very nicely. Can't have happened overnight."

"Too right. You don't want to know how many nights I've spent in front of the mirror filling my own teeth. Not enough toothflossing stringmints in the world to fix that catastrophe." He paused, examining the cigarette as though assessing its potential to reverse his progress. "I'm only lucky you were up for it," he added causally. "It might've been a matter of disguise before I had a good roll otherwise."

"Yes," Remus said, bland. "_You're_ lucky."

Sirius grinned and craned his head back. "You wanted me while we were writing, quite badly. Didn't you?"

"Yes," Remus admitted. "And you wanted me just as much."

Sirius gave a low laugh—a rolling sound, like thunder and rain. "Yes," he told him, sealing his lips around the filter. “I did.”

Sirius did not look at him, as Remus expected. Desire picked up in him as he watched Sirius smoke. He let himself feel it, let it fester, grateful to feel ravenous for someone for the first time in years. Sirius and Sirius alone could love the beast in him: Remus' appetites, the way he could nearly smell it when Sirius' pulse picked up with desire or apprehension. Remus liked Sirius' long hair because the oils in it smelled like him, stayed with him for hours if Remus buried his fingers in it deeply enough. It made Remus delirious and possessive. Sirius knew it. He encouraged it, moaned deep when Remus took hold.

Remus wanted to kiss him, but Sirius was too relaxed, too focused on his cigarette, too exhausted by nostalgia. It was enough to have him in his arms. Sirius' hair—clean, feather light, smelling too much like shampoo and not enough like him—fanned over Remus' torso. Remus gathered it in his hand and spread it out over him again, content to pass time in saccharine fascination.

"I like this length on you," he said quietly.

"I know, Moony."

He had left it long for him.

"Been playing memories over," Sirius said idly. "I make a point of it most days. Trying to offset the Dementor delirium."

"As you should." 

"Fifth year was a mess, wasn't it?"

Sirius had been more chaotic than usual that year. In the fallout of having run away from home, at a loss for the future, he'd endeavored to bury himself in a number of rotating pleasures. He threw frequent parties in Gryffindor Tower, supplied with ill-begotten booze, that Remus should have shut down. Instead Remus, in love with him, had partaken far too often, especially for a Prefect. 

The problem was that Sirius had been a handsy drunk, pushing every known boundary to see where it bent, and Remus made it his mission to be drunk enough himself to invite plausible deniability as to his enjoyment of events. As the Marauders were the only Gryffindor boys in the year, invasions of personal space had become part and parcel. They were a closer bunch than average, James and Sirius particularly effusive in their affections. But in fifth year something tipped, and poor sentimental Sirius—adrift without a home, clinging too tightly to what little he had left—had started affectionately necking with whoever would let him, which was usually down to the three of them.

They had varying reactions. Peter was least receptive; Sirius learned quickly to plant a kiss on his forehead at the very most. James laughed about it, shrugging him off and redirecting his focus with open affection.

Remus, on the other hand.

"Did you know you liked men before I started necking you once a fortnight?" Sirius asked bluntly.

Remus gave a short laugh. "I was in love with you already by then, Sirius."

Sirius' gaze turned sharp. "What?"

"We practically made out on a regular basis two months before I came out, and you thought I wasn't sure about it?"

"_I_ wasn't sure about it!"

"Your internal monologue that year was a banshee shriek. I certainly wasn't letting you give me regular hickies out of anything other than abundant clarity over wanting you to. Alright," he said, holding up a hand as Sirius' mouth hung open, "let me tell you the exact moment of reckoning. The summer before—you'd just run away, and you were a mess. You'd stolen that motorbike—you _bought_ it, you said you'd stolen it at the time," he clarified as Sirius laughed, "and picked up Prongs along the way. As you say, you had a reputation to maintain; you pulled in wearing the most unbearably tight leather trousers, and because of the person you are, you were half-hard from riding when you arrived." 

Sirius laughed again, a hoarse and striking sound. He rolled over to watch Remus talk, supporting his weight on one elbow, smoking extravagantly just to show off. "James was an absolute disaster from the ride," Remus said, "he was _not_ well, he had not been remotely prepared for the way you drove that thing, and he spent the next five minutes vomiting spiritedly into the nearest bush. You, meanwhile, stepped off that thing like you'd ridden every day of your life and pulled your helmet off—impressed that you wore one, I imagine James insisted—and the most magnificent mane of hair came tumbling out. It was sweaty and matted but I didn't care. You hadn't shaved since you left, which didn't mean much back then, but—you were gorgeous. You were just a beautiful catastrophe. And while James was being sick in the begonias, you pulled the world's biggest bottle of firewhiskey out of a saddlebag and brandished it like a prize.

"Then you turned and walked toward me with your stolen motorbike and your booze and your adolescent misery—" Remus could not keep the affection out of his voice, had patently stopped trying—"and you grinned wide at the sight of me and kissed me hard on the cheek, because you were feeling reckless. Your breath smelled like you'd smoked a complete carton of cigarettes along the way, and you embraced me and said, 'Alright, Moony?' And then you walked into the cabin without waiting for an answer, announcing you were pouring everyone drinks with your arse perfectly sculpted in all of that leather. And I knew immediately, beyond doubt, that I loved you." Remus, smiling, took the cigarette from between Sirius' loose fingers. "I had loved you already; I only knew it then. You were the most compelling person I had ever seen. I wanted to look at you forever. Impossible, looking back, to think we were only 15." 

Sirius was blankly staring, graced by a rare silence. Remus was tempted to kiss him again, but settled for sweeping the bangs out of Sirius' eyes with his free fingers. "All this to say: yes, I knew how I felt the first time you set your mouth on my throat, and every time after. And I was having a glorious time, for whatever that's worth."

Sirius studied him a long while, watching the embers burn before taking the cigarette back. "That was twenty years ago."

"Hard to believe, isn't it?"

Sirius took a deep drag. "Mine was the first time your moans of pleasure rattled the windows," he said casually, as though it was nothing.

Remus felt the familiar flush of embarrassment break across his skin. "They did not."

"They most certainly did. Straight to my cock, Moony, every time. I made it my singular mission in life to see if I could make you break the sound barrier."

Remus closely watched Sirius' hands as he delicately put the cigarette out. "Big talk."

"I went the mile for you. I loved you from the very first disastrous year. Not as early as you, but..." Sirius ducked his head, shy again. "That's all I'm trying to say. I haven't stopped."

Remus hesitated only a second before taking Sirius' face in both hands, kissing him softly, then deeply. He seduced him gradually and with plain intention, pulling him in until Sirius was half draped over him, all muscles loose with plain desire.

"I'm afraid I'm still somewhat hopeless for intimate affection," Sirius muttered, hands wrenched in his hair.

"I intend to take advantage of that."

"Damned opportunist," Sirius murmured against his mouth; and to the sound of soft static as the vinyl spun with nothing to play, Remus took Sirius into his arms and kept the world outside at bay another blessed hour.

  



End file.
